


All Roads Lead to Home

by ReynardtheFox



Category: Gotham (TV), John Wick (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Memory Loss, Oswald is the Administrator, Redacted AU, canon typical bad therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29551977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReynardtheFox/pseuds/ReynardtheFox
Summary: "Tell me about Mr Nygma."Victor paused to sip his tea, studying the Administrator's face.“Eddie boy started losing it after No Man's Land. Talking to himself, taking drugs, getting sloppy. Got caught almost a dozen times in five years. Then, his last stint in Arkham, they fucked him up real good." He said. "Word is, they scrambled his brains so badly he lost half his memories of the last decade. Hasn't committed a crime since, far as I know. Sounds like his heart just isn't in it anymore.""I see." The Administrator's expression was cold as ice, and for the third time in the last hour, Victor wondered to himself: could this really be Oswald Cobblepot?The Administrator returns to a Gotham that is exactly as he remembers it, and an Ed Nygma who doesn't exactly remember him.An AU of Chierei's Redacted series
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 36
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Redacted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192171) by [Chierei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chierei/pseuds/Chierei). 



> This has got to be the nichest fic I have ever written. 
> 
> Read Redacted first—this fic will make 0 sense otherwise.

"You mean he's cured?" Jim asked, hand squeezing a little tighter around a mug of cold coffee.

"Well, 'cured' is terribly subjective when it comes to mental health," the doctor admitted. "And truth be told, even if it wasn't, I would hesitate to use that word. Please understand, Mr Nygma's illness is severe and deep rooted—I suspect we have not even begun to scratch the surface of his mental issues. But—" he raised a hand to cut Jim off "—our goal here at Arkham is not to treat our wards—it is to rehabilitate those who can return to normal society, and contain those who cannot. And we believe we have found a way to reintegrate Mr Nygma into the world."

Ed had left Arkham over a dozen times in these last few years, but this was only the second time he'd done so legally. The first time was.... the memory of the first time was hazy, and Ed had learned by now that he'd get nothing but a headache trying to think too hard about it. This time, Lee was there to pick him up.

"How do you feel?" She asked as she drove him back to his apartment.

"I... I don't know." He looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching in his lap. "I don't know that I feel anything."

"Oh, Ed." Lee whispered. "What did they do to you?"

Staring down at the table full of blueprints and notes and ideas, Ed wondered what he'd ever seen in these plans. They were clever, for sure, but not his best—he'd only been halfway done when the police had picked him up this time, and even with a cursory look he could spot a dozen places where the plan could be improved on. But even filling them in, even imagining himself slipping through a ten second window in the security patrol, all Ed could think was _why? Why bother?_ Whatever joy he'd once felt outsmarting the people around him had been burned out of him, and there was little more than a yawning void in its place.

The Riddler never returned after Arkham. For the first time in what felt like forever, Ed was alone.

Lucius got him a job, once it was clear Ed had no intentions of returning to his life of crime. It was.... fine. Wayne Enterprises was usually on the cutting edge of technological research, and the intellectual stimulation was enough to keep him satisfied. He bounced from project to project as his interests waxed and waned, everyone else too intimidated by his reputation to tell him no, and slowly, the overwhelming sense of hollowness receded, just a little, as he threw himself completely into his work. There was no pleasure in showing off anymore, but it was enough just to have interesting problems to solve.

It had to be enough.

Sometimes, sitting in his flat, a memory would rise to the surface, blurry as if it were playing through a sheet of water. A tiny table laden with food he couldn't make out, snatches of notes from a song he couldn't hear. But they always slipped away when he tried to focus on them, and he let them, his interest in his lost memories forcibly flattened into nothing. Whatever memories he'd made with Penguin here, Arkham's twisted therapy had surgically excised them from him. Easier to let them settle like silt to the bottom of his mind.

He kept in contact with Lee and Butch—which meant he often saw their spouses as well, and Barbara on occasion. They'd helped him through his years of drug abuse, and their friendship had become a constant in his life. Many of his memories of them were now blurry as well, but they were more than happy to fill him in. But there was always that name hanging over their heads, the one that would make them pause in a story and steal nervous glances at him, like the mere mention of the Penguin would break him again.

He didn't know how to tell them he felt less than nothing, hearing that name.

Over the years, word spread among the Rogues. Something had happened to the Riddler after a six month stay in Arkham—he was missing memories, he'd lost his soul, he'd become something less than himself. Escapes grew more common after that—no one wanted to risk experiencing whatever had happened to him.

Rarely, Ed would idly wonder about Penguin, what he was like, just what the man had meant to him. Ed had overdosed twice, trying to hallucinate him, or so Lee said, and he couldn't help but be curious. What sort of man inspired that sort of fanatic devotion? What sort of relationship had they had, that Penguin's disappearance had destroyed him so?

These thoughts, too, slid away from his mind all too easily, the one puzzle he felt compelled not to solve. It bothered Ed, in a distant sort of way, that Arkham had taken that from him too, but ultimately....

It didn't matter. Artificial or not, the reality was that he was no longer capable of seriously caring about his lost memories.

His life was not happy, exactly. But it was safe, routine, comfortable.

For five years, that was enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Opening night was off to a promising start.

The Administrator's ears were keener than they had been when he'd left Gotham, his years as the Bartender sharpening his hearing as he learned to pick out snippets of conversation from across a noisy room. So when Sofia Falcone, still being pushed up the stairs to the second floor lounge, started trying to negotiate with Victor Zsasz in a whisper, he heard it loud and clear.

It was more or less what he'd expected from her: appeals to their past, to their status as fellow Gothamites, a promise to match whatever the club was paying him, invoking the memory of her father, everything she could think of that might sway Zsasz's loyalties.

A pity for her then, that he'd had Sergei and Stefan accompany them. Just in case. Zsasz, quite wisely, said nothing back to her, instead leading her over to where the Administrator sat before the fire, perusing a report Valentine had sent in.

"Ms Falcone." He gestured to a seat across the table from him, still not looking up at her. Unhurriedly, he continued reading as she sat reluctantly, letting the silence between them grow to an uncomfortable level before snapping the file shut, and handing it off to his secretary. "Ms Falcone, I do not suffer fools gladly. As your invitation clearly stated, the Continental is consecrated ground, and no theft, violence, or murder is to be committed here."

Sofia—he could not bring himself to think of her as Donna Falcone, to give her the same title and respect that her father had earned—smiled, a soft, embarrassed smile he knew well. It was her favorite for weaseling out of trouble, playing the victim, and it made his skin crawl with recognition. "I'm so sorry." She said, fluttering her lashes slightly. The Administrator looked back at her, impassive, and her smile faded just a little. "Talk of neutrality is usually more of a suggestion than a rule in Gotham, and, well, given how many of my enemies you've gathered here.... I just had to try."

"I understand." He said flatly, and she beamed at him. Behind her, his secretary was returning, a silver tray in her hand.

"I didn't realize how serious you were about these things. It won't happen again, of course." She leaned forwards coyly, as if they were conspirators, but froze when he fixed her with an icy look.

"No." He said, standing. When she made to stand as well, Zsasz pushed her back down into the chair. "It won't." At his nod, his secretary laid down the silver tray, revealing a sharp steel chisel, and a roll of bandages sitting on a bed of cloth. Sofia frowned at that, confusion written across her face. "I had hoped our first meeting would be under better circumstances. But there are rules, Ms Falcone. And there are consequences for breaking them."

Sofia's eyes widened, and started to dart too and fro as she searched for any advantage she could find. "You can't afford to go to war against the entire Falcone family." She said hurriedly. "If we—" The Administrator raised a hand to silence her, and continued as if she hadn't interrupted.

"The penalty for attempting murder on Continental grounds is, ah, suspension of membership." Zsasz's gun clicking behind her ear made it clear enough what that was a euphemism for. "But!" He raised his voice above her frantic objections. "Given the circumstances, and your position, I have decided to give you a second chance."

Her shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly at that. Unsurprising—no one survived in Gotham, the Administrator knew, by blindly trusting in second chances.

"Pledge your fealty, and you will be allowed to leave the Continental alive."

That got a reaction out of her. Her head snapped up, her mask slipping as she snarled at him, eyes blazing. "How _dare_ —"

"Refuse, and you meet the same fate as your men." The Administrator met her gaze head on, cold as ice. There was a long moment of silence as they stared each other down, the tension in the air growing thicker and thicker. Then, the slightest waver in Sofia's expression.

"Fine. I work for you, I get to walk away?"

The Administrator almost smiled at that, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards ever so briefly. "Not for me, no. Here at the Continental—" He raised his hand, and gestured all around him "—we all serve under the High Table. As will you. After providing us evidence of your loyalty, of course." He gestured at the chisel on the tray. She stared at it for a moment, then blanched as she realized what he was asking for.

"Up to the second knuckle, if you please. Your choice of finger."

Sofia stood slowly, and this time Zsasz let her. Picking up the chisel with one trembling hand, she stared at it for a heartbeat—and then swung at the Administrator with a snarl, trying to bury it in his neck.

He'd half expected this too, and jerked back out of reach of the tool, the sudden movement jolting loose a few locks of hair to drape over his forehead. A moment later, Zsasz had Sofia's arms in a tight grip behind her back, leaving her no room to struggle without dislocating her shoulders. She stared at him, eyes wide as saucers—as if she couldn't believe she'd failed.

The Administrator stepped closer, never taking his eyes from hers. "Are you quite done with your tantrum?" He asked, letting a note of reprimand seep into his voice.

Sofia opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, still staring at the Administrator with shock in her eyes. Finally, she looked away, and nodded. A gesture from the Administrator, and Zsasz released her. Under their watchful eyes, she laid her left hand on the cloth covered tray, and raised the chisel.

The lounge was soundproofed, and the partygoers on the floor below heard nothing when Sofia screamed in pain.

"Very good." The Administrator reached for the bandages as she dropped to her knees. "Repeat after me." He began to wrap up what was left of her ring finger, stemming the blood flow until the Doctor could see her. "I will serve."

"I-I will serve." She gasped out, her breathing ragged.

"I will be of service."

"I will be—" she hissed as he tied off the bandage "I will be of service."

"Very good, Ms Falcone." He nodded to Sergei to help her up. "Let's head down to greet the rest of the guests, shall we?"

* * *

The rest of the night went about as well as could be expected. A show of force, a public execution, and a visit from Gotham's own costumed vigilante. Dismissing Zsasz, the Administrator settled back into his office chair, and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with shaky hands.

Behind his eyes floated Butch, Tabitha, Selina, Ivy and all those other familiar faces, each one threatening to dredge up memories he'd spent so much time ignoring. And he'd felt just as keenly the presence of those who hadn't been invited—the absence of Jim, Lee, Ed and Barbara bright as a spotlight in his mind. It had taken everything he had to focus on his speech and not who he was giving it to.

Taking a long drag off his cigarette, he closed his eyes, clearing his mind before turning his attenton to Sofia Falcone. There was a large part of him that wished he could have simply killed her, but the Continental's position was still tenuous for the time being. He couldn't afford to destabilize the situation by killing the head of the Falcone family.

So he'd let her go. He had not allowed himself even a trace of pleasure at the sight of her slinking out of his club with her tail between her legs—to enjoy that would only crack open the painful memories of why, exactly he hated her so.

Instead, he looked to the future, considering Sofia's next move and how to counter it. She would lay low for a while, he expected, spend some time searching for weaknesses and riling up her men. Maybe send a spy or two into the club, try and get someone on staff. A pity that the background checks the Continental ran were far, far more thorough than the GCPD's. She'd have better luck sending a spy into the Sirens.

Other than that, she didn't have the sway to blacklist the club in any meaningful way, nor the money to undercut their profits. She wouldn't choose an all out war until she was forced to, which meant...

Her final angle would most likely be the Administrator himself. He was the lynchpin of this whole operation, and if she could get him out of the way or under her thumb, the rest would just fall into place.

She wouldn't rush against an enemy she didn't recognize, who she didn't know how to play. He had at least three months, he decided. Three months before she would accept that he had no exploitable weaknesses, and come for his life.

* * *

He was, as it turned out, wrong on both counts.


	3. Chapter 3

  
"My, my." Barbara laughed. "Looks like Eddie and I missed quite the party."  
  
Ed hummed noncommittally, sipping at his white russian. Barbara had made it her personal mission to diversify his taste in cocktails, and refused to serve him grasshoppers until he tried her drink of choice whenever he came around. At least this one was halfway tolerable. "Sounds messy."  
  
"Beheadings tend to be, yeah." Butch shrugged. "Anyways, they got it cleaned up quickly."  
  
"Too quickly." Tabitha frowned. "The guys they had clean up the body were good. Mopped up the blood and bodies in about ten minutes flat. Didn't see a single stain when I went to look."  
  
"Interesting." Barbara leaned over the bar. "Almost makes me wish I was still in the game, just to have gotten an invite. How about you, Nygma? Regretting going straight?"  
  
"Not particularly." He shrugged, and took another sip of his cocktail. "I'm fine hearing all this second hand."  
  
Barbara sighed, nails clicking against the countertop. "You used to be so much more fun."  
  
Ed smiled briefly at that. Of the people he regularly spoke to, Barbara was the only one who didn't treat him with kid gloves, and he appreciated that, though he'd never tell her. "I'll pass your complaints on to the Arkham doctors."  
  
"You do that." She turned back to Tabitha. "What do you think," she asked, a sly smirk spreading across her face, "are the chances that someone will call in an anonymous tip about people getting killed in this new club?"  
  
To Ed's surprise, Tabitha grimaced. "If you're thinking of trying to knock out a competitor, don't. These people were seriously prepared, and they wouldn't have made such a public show if they weren't ready for the fallout."  
  
Barbara's eyes narrowed. "Are you... scared?" She asked, somewhat incredulously.  
  
Butch leaned forwards, folding his arms across the bar. "You didn't see this guy, Matthew Richardson or the Administrator or whatever. Man means business." He gave them a meaningful look. "Never thought I'd see the day all the rogues, _and_ Sofia Falcone, would just shut up and listen to a stranger like that. And, it looks like he's got Victor Zsasz working for him exclusively. No idea how he managed that."  
  
"What was he like?" Barbara asked. "For future reference."  
  
"Bald." Ed snarked. "Pale. Covered in tally marks, always has a gun. Likes disco."  
  
Tabitha gave him a withering look. She still didn't get along with him—though he didn't quite remember why—but they'd reached a point now where they tolerated each other. "We were standing a little too far back to see properly. He was short, under 5'8" I'd say. Hair was dark, maybe black, but that might have been the light. A shit ton of tattoos, and these piercings on his lower lip."  
  
Ed tuned out as Barbara continued grilling Butch and Tabitha on the new player. Unlike her, he truly was out of the criminal underworld—as much as he could be with friends like these. He might drop by the Continental eventually, just to see what all the fuss was about, but after that, he doubted he'd have to give the club, or it's proprietor a second thought.

* * *

Settled in one of Wayne Tower's many break rooms, Ed rubbed at his eyes, only half listening as Dr Thorne fretted about his lack of progress. The problem with working with every active project was that everyone felt like they could come to him for advice or suggestions.  
  
"Try looking into the scrapped biouminescence project. The statistical model they were using—"  
  
"Oh." Thorne lit up immediately. "Of course! We could use it as a base, and—perfect!" Leaping to his feet, the man dashed out of the room, pausing only briefly to thank Ed.  
  
Across the table, Lucius glanced up from his laptop. "I'm starting to think we should give you a new job title." He said wryly. "Edward Nygma, R&D fortune teller."  
  
"If it comes with a raise, I'll take it." Standing, Ed stretched, then nodded to Lucius. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Foxy, I'll be going. See you on Monday."  
  
Lucius waved him off, and Ed started to head back to his car, his brain already searching for the next distraction. He should keep working on his puzzle boxes, he decided. He'd recently taken up making them instead of just solving them, but his lack of woodworking skill had turned out to be something of a bottleneck in that area. He still had a few old hideouts he could convert into a workshop, and—  
  
Some old, almost forgotten instincts had his head snapping up at a flash of movement, just in time to see a well dressed thug at his side pull a cloth bag from under his suit jacket. Startled, Ed turned to run, but years without having to run for his life had slowed his reflexes—the bag was over his head before he made it two steps; then, there was an arm around his throat, choking him until his vision went hazy, and then black.  
  


* * *

  
  
"Ow." Ed groaned, then winced at the act sent a dull throb through his neck.  
  
It had been a while since Ed had last been kidnapped. Testing the rope that kept him tied to a really, quite uncomfortable chair, he found it was good quality, with solid, sturdy knots just out of reach of his hands. Professional. Glancing around, he spotted four goons, each wearing the same plain black suit. One of them pulled out a phone. "He's awake."  
  
The suits spoke to an organized, old fashioned gang that cared about image. That eliminated any from the Narrows, and most of the Rogues Gallery. More mundane criminals, then? There were dozens of gangs who tried—and often failed—to project a veneer of civility, but how many of them would be bold and capable enough to kidnap him in broad daylight, right outside Wayne Tower? Only one.  
  
"Falcone?" He called, turning to face the goon with the phone. He vaguely recalled meeting the Donna before, and having it go badly, but certain parts of the memory were blurred and distorted. Unfortunately, the part with the Dentist was not one of them. That, he remembered in vivid detail. "Sofia? Is that you? What do you want with me?"  
  
"Good. Keep him there until I call back." commanded a tiny voice from the speaker. "If he fights, rough him up a little. Don't break anything important."  
  
Oh dear.  
  


* * *

  
  
By the time he finished flipping through the pictures and the attached note, The Administrator was gone, and Oswald was shaking in anger. "Victor." He snarled, already reaching for the pistol under his desk. "Explain to me exactly how Sofia Falcone knew to go for Nygma."  
  
Victor was faster, his sidearm already out, and pointed at the floor. "Don't look at me, boss." He said, his voice as close to placating as he could possibly get. "Even if I was fickle enough to go to Don Falcone's killer and tell her about you, I wouldn't be stupid enough to stick around here afterwards. She saw you up close, maybe she recognized you then and just didn't say anything."  
  
That... was true. Grinding his teeth, Oswald closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. One.. two.. three.  
  
When they opened again, he was still once again, just barely calm enough to do what he needed to. Pulling open one of his desk drawers slightly harder than necessary, he flipped rapidly through the pile of files, before pulling out a small stack of them "It doesn't matter. Take Antonio, Stefan and Vasily. Find him. And bring him to the back entrance." He handed the files to the assassin. "These are the properties currently owned by the Falcones." He considered the pictures again, scanning the background. "He'll be in one of the empty warehouses, somewhere away from the heart of the city, not near the Narrows." He tossed the pictures to the assassin. "Go."  
  
Victor left, and Oswald dropped his head into his hands. God dammit. He'd thought.... he'd hoped that with Ed reformed, he wouldn't ever have to see the man again. But nothing could ever be that easy, could it, not for him.   
  
He was going to tear Sofia to shreds with his bare hands for making him think about Ed again, for making him care. When he got hold of her, he was going to make her wish she'd stayed in her coma.

* * *

"You know," Ed said as he was bundled out of the car, "I don't think I've ever been kidnapped from a kidnapping before."

Zsasz snorted. "First time for anything, Nygma. Come on, the boss is waiting."

With Zsasz in front of him and three goons behind him, Ed didn't have much of a choice as he was herded through narrow alleyways. At least they were gentler than Falcone's thugs, Ed thought, briefly touching his injured neck. After a few minutes, they reached the back of a building, and Ed frowned. This was that new club, the Continental, wasn't it? Now that he thought about it, Butch had mentioned something about Zsasz working for them. Which meant that the boss here was...

"Mr Nygma." A slight figure limped out of a back door, lit cigarette in hand. "My deepest apologies for the inconvenience."

Ed just stared. The man was ~~beautiful~~ striking, his polished, professional dress and demeanor a stark contrast to the ink that crept down his arms and up his neck, and the piercings that glinted in the fading light. This must be the Administrator that Butch and Tabitha had mentioned. There was something about him....

"Unfortunately, it seems Ms Falcone has decided to involve you in her dispute with our establishment," the man continued. "Rest assured, we will deal with her shortly, but until then, I'm afraid there's every chance that she will attempt to kidnap you again. Until this unpleasantness is over, we'd like to offer you safe haven with us. Consider it us taking responsibility for involving you in this matter, however indirectly."  
  
Ed frowned, confused. "Wait, why me? I don't have any connection to this place."  
  
The Administrator simply shrugged. "Who can say? Perhaps she wanted your expertise as a former Rogue, or perhaps she wanted to frame us for your abduction. Now Mr Nygma, if you would come this way?"  
  
"Do I have a choice?" Ed asked, eyeing Zsasz.  
  
"Naturally. No business is to be conducted on Continental grounds, and that includes kidnapping. You would be welcome to leave at any time."  
  
Ed shouldn't believe him, with three armed guards and one Victor Zsasz at his back. But he did. "Then by all means, lead the way."


	4. Chapter 4

This was the worst idea Oswald had ever had. Unfortunately, it was also his only real option. The hotel section of the Continental wasn't even in the blueprint stage—Oswald had planned to wait two months after opening night to start working on the hotel; it had barely been two weeks—and right now, the only living quarters in the building were, well, his. He couldn't risk placing Nygma elsewhere, not when the Falcones had gone to ground after Zsasz retrieved him. He needed Nygma safe in the Continental, and if that means the man had to stay in his quarters for the next few days....  
  
It would only be for three or four days, Oswald told himself. Falcone couldn't hide from him much longer than that, surely. Just a handful of days with Ed. Ed, who'd put up so much less of a fuss than he'd expected. Ed, who didn't recognize his face. Ed, who he still—  
  
Damn it all.  
  
It was just a few days. He could make it a few days, wrap himself in the armor of the Administrator and harden his heart against the onslaught of memories and emotions Ed dredged up in him.  
  
"Nice place." Nygma commented awkwardly as he stepped into the Administrator's quarters. "Very modern. Did you know the modern style is actually around a hundred years old?" He must be nervous, if he was back to spouting random facts. The Administrator ignored him.  
  
"I'm afraid there's no guest bedroom," he said. Working on autopilot, he stepped into the kitchen to make a pot of tea, just to have something to do. "You'll have to take the couch."  
  
"That's fine," Nygma said. "I think this couch might be nicer than my bed, actually."  
  
The Administrator didn't trust himself to respond, an odd feeling tugging at his heart. This was a mistake, he thought to himself. God, this was a mistake. Ed was here in his home, close enough for him to touch, filling the space between them with his voice and his gaze and his scent and his presence, and... and... and...  
  
He carried the cup of tea back out to the living room, where Nygma had settled onto the couch, and passed it to him. "I'll send someone to your apartment to pick up a change of clothes." Somehow, he kept his voice steady as he continued. "Now, if you'll excuse me."  
  
When the Administrator turned to leave though, he caught a glimpse of Nygma frowning down at his tea. "Is something the matter?" He asked before he could stop himself.  
  
"What?" Nygma started, looking up at him with wide eyes so familiar it took his breath away. "Oh, no, sorry. Everything's fine, it's just..."  
  
He should leave. He should nod and turn around and walk down to his office and do his best to forget that Ed fucking Nygma was sitting on his sofa drinking his tea.  
  
"It's just... this feels familiar, somehow."  
  
Oswald's eyes dropped to the faint bruise around Ed's neck, and his blood turned to ice.  
__  
_What tea had he made?_  
  
The faint scent of ginger wafted through the air between them, and something must have shown on his face, because Ed blinked, still staring up at him. "Is everything alright?"  
  
He couldn't do this. Not with the memory of that night dragged to the forefront of his mind, the tea, the sofa, the bruises, the hug...  
  
"Quite." He said curtly. "If you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I must return to work."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Seated safely in his office, the Administrator flipped through the papers on his desk without reading a single word, his mind still upstairs.  
  
He'd heard what had happened to Ed, had known the man had changed, lost memories, but he hadn't really understood it, not until he'd seen for himself just how different Ed acted. Not until he'd been fixed with that curious look, without the fear or wariness or anger that had poisoned their every interaction since that day on the docks. And more than that...  
  
_Ed hadn't recognized him at all._  
__  
It was jarring, to suddenly be the only one carrying the baggage between them. Victor had told him that Ed still knew the other rogues, even though his memory was scattered and inconsistent. So why—  
  
The Administrator clenched his fist, focusing on the feeling of sharp nails digging into his palm. This was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? To not be the Penguin again. It was a good thing Ed didn't recognize him. He'd wanted to stay away from the people he'd known before—this was as close to staying away from Ed as he could manage while living with the man. It would make it easier to pretend they were strangers, to feel nothing about his presence.   
  
It would make it easier, once he was gone, to pretend that he'd never been here at all.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The Administrator returned home at dawn, when he could no longer put it off with the excuse of more paperwork. Any hope he had that Nygma was still asleep were dashed the moment he opened the door, and heard something sizzling from across the living room.  
  
No one had said anything about letting Ed use the kitchen, but the man had never had a good grasp on the concept of boundaries.  
  
"Perfect timing." Ed called out, "I made enough breakfast for two. Well, I guess it's dinner for you, but if you want some..."  
  
It was so familiar Oswald wanted to throw up. All thought of pretending he didn't know this man went out the window, and all he could think about were the days when they'd lived together, sharing meals in a cramped apartment or in a grand mansion, chatting companionably, blissfully unaware of just how fragile their relationship truly was. How easily love could turn into hate, and joy into pain.  
  
Ed appeared in the doorway with a spatula in hand, breaking down years worth of carefully erected barriers just by being there, just by being Ed. "Hungry?"  
  


* * *

  
  
"I wanted to thank you, Administrator." Ed suddenly said, halfway through their meal. "For rescuing me, and letting me stay. I've been at Sofia's mercies before—I'd prefer not to experience that again."  
  
Thank you. The words shouldn't have had his heart seizing in his chest, shouldn't have thrown him so off kilter. When was the last time he'd heard those words from Ed? Had he ever?  
  
"As I said, we are merely taking responsibility for the trouble we've caused you." The Administrator managed to get out.  
  
"Even so." Ed said without a hint of his usual arrogance. "I don't think anyone would have criticized you if you hadn't. I appreciate it."  
  
God.  
  
He really had changed.  
  
Oswald looked up, and studied him for a long moment, this strange new Ed, searching for the energy, the curiosity, the hunger, the pride that had always lurked behind his eyes.   
  
Nothing.  
  
It occurred to him that this must be how Zsasz felt, watching the Administrator now—the eerie blend of familiar features and uncharacteristic behavior had him on edge, his shoulders prickling with unease.  
  
This Ed had all the confidence and cleverness of the Riddler, but...  
  
With an unpleasant jolt, Oswald finally realized just what had been bothering him so much up until now.  
  
In this whole time they'd been talking, Ed hadn't so much as started a single riddle.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
It was easier to compartmentalize after that night. Nygma was so different from how he'd once been; the Administrator found it shockingly simple to think of him as someone else, someone new. There were still flashes of memory, when Nygma turned his head a certain way, or used certain turns of phrase, but they faded quickly. Nothing like the sustained onslaught of memories the Administrator had experienced when he'd first arrived.  
  
As it turned out, the Falcones were much more adept at hiding than he'd first anticipated. Four days passed, then five, then six, and there was still no sign of Sofia Falcone and her capos.  
  
This was exactly why he hadn't wanted to start a fight with the Falcones in the first place. The Continental wasn't established enough; they didn't yet have the resources they needed to sweep the city efficiently, while the Falcones had been rooted in Gotham for generations. They must have had hideouts, boltholes, escape routes that even Oswald never learned about, and were using them to their full advantage.  
  
Still, they were closing in. It was only a matter of time before they found her. And then everything could go back to normal. 


	5. Chapter 5

The life of a nightclub owner, Ed knew from Barbara, was generally nocturnal; the Administrator was no different, and Ed had always been good at shifting his sleep schedule. He quickly settled into a new routine: he would wake in the afternoon when the Administrator left for work, spend his day reading the various books on the apartment shelves, and then share dinner with the man when he returned in the early morning.  
  
The Administrator, Ed found, was not at all what he'd expected. Butch and Tabitha had described him as icy, commanding, and ruthless, and while he could certainly see how they'd formed that impression, his own evaluation was somewhat more positive.  
  
The man Ed found himself cohabitating with was quiet, certainly, and not particularly expressive. But after Ed's thanks that first night, he seemed to have warmed up a little, enough to make living together tolerable. Pleasant, even. The man wouldn't initiate conversation, but if Ed did over dinner, he was usually willing to allow it.   
  
Talking with the Administrator was far less awkward than he'd feared it would be. The ability to ramble endlessly about the things that interested him was one of the few things Arkham hadn't changed about Ed—as was the tendency for it to irritate everyone around him. The Administrator, though, seemed unperturbed by Ed's long winded tangents, even interjecting on occasion. It was clear Ed never had his full attention—but it was just as clear that he was never ignoring him entirely. By Ed's estimation, that put him right below Foxy as a conversation partner, and far above Jim.  
  
The Administrator was also unexpectedly kind, or at least considerate. That much was evident in the way he always left out breakfast—two fried eggs, an even number of bacon slices, and toast cut diagonally—with a mug of hot coffee in the afternoon for Ed, or how a thicker blanket had appeared on the couch after a throwaway comment on the second day. When Ed had thanked him, he'd simply waved it off, saying that it was the least he could do. And Ed wondered...  
  


* * *

  
  
On the fourth day, Ed ran out of books. He tried rereading a few, but his near photographic memory made it a pointless endeavor. It made him antsy, to not have anything occupying his mind, distracting him from the looming emptiness in his own traitorous brain. He didn't say anything about it, but it seemed his unease had been noted all the same.  
  
The next day, the Administrator spoke unprompted for the first time. "The bulk of my library," he said, "is in my office, not up here."   
  
Well. Ed knew an invitation when he heard one.  
  
"I'll take my appointments in the lounge today, Ms. Jones." The Administrator said curtly as he ushered Ed into his office. Glancing back, Ed caught a brief glimpse of his secretary raising a pierced brow before the door was shut behind them.  
  
The bookshelves here were, as the Administrator had said, much fuller than the ones in the apartment, and it didn't take long for Ed to pick out one he hadn't seen before. They spent the next few hours in companionable silence, in which Ed devoured the better part of a treatise on poisonous mushrooms, and the Administrator worked, making his way through a stack of paperwork with alarming speed. As time went on, though, Ed found himself looking up on occasion to study the smaller man, as a question that had been eating at him since he arrived started to roll around in his head, collecting thoughts and observations as it went.  
  
"Can I help you?" The Administrator asked, not looking up from his papers.  
  
 _I don't think so. Can you?_  
  
Ed blinked rapidly as the flash of memory faded away. Another data point in favor of his theory.  
  
"I've been thinking, over these last few days. About why I'm here." He said slowly, resting his book against his knee. "Falcone's men took pictures of me while I was tied up, and I heard them talking about some sort of trade. I think... I think I was being used as leverage against someone." The Administrator made a noncommittal noise, which Ed took as a sign to continue. "The question is, against who? She kidnapped me in broad daylight, so they must have been important enough for her to risk it. And I must have been important to them, if she was so confident she could get what she wanted with just a few pictures."  
  
"Are you going somewhere with this, Mr Nygma?" The Administrator set down his pen, and turned to look at Ed, unreadable as ever.  
  
"You say I was kidnapped as part of Sofia's grudge against the Continental. Well, you're its public face, and the only well known name attached to it. I didn't recognize you... but that doesn't mean as much as it used to. Sofia though... you brought her up on stage—she'd have gotten a better look at you than anyone else." Ed paused, trying to sort through his words before he spoke them. "You've been kind to me. Kinder than you needed to. You know how I like my breakfast, you're used to the way I talk. And sometimes... Sometimes I get these flashes of memory when I'm with you."  
  
He looked up, and met the Administrator's eyes. "You're him, aren't you? You're the Penguin."  
  
The Administrator stared back, grey eyes as cool as ever, and for a moment, Ed thought he would deny it, dismiss him, or maybe even ignore him entirely. Then the man dipped his head in acknowledgement, and picked up his pen once more. "As clever as always, Mr Nygma."  
  
And that was that. The Administrator returned to his paperwork, and after the briefest pause, Ed to his book.

* * *

"What made you decide to come back?" Ed asked the next morning as they were cooking dinner. "Why open up a club in Gotham?"  
  
The Administrator was silent, and Ed waited patiently, deftly chopping up vegetables.  
  
"My employers wished to expand their business into Gotham—I was the best suited to the task." He said eventually, laying out the table. "Gotham is not a welcoming city to outsiders. Navigating its underworld required someone intimately familiar with its workings. Such as its former king and mayor."  
  
So it wasn't by choice that he'd returned, then. Ed didn't say that out loud, guessing that that was a delicate subject. "Tell me about your employers?" Ed asked instead.  
  
And, perhaps to both their surprise, he did. For once, Ed was the quiet one, listening attentively as the Administrator spoke of a council of crime lords whose reach spanned continents, of a vast network of killers and spies and gangsters with their own rules and lingo and currency, of a chain of hotels that meant the same thing everywhere you went—safety.   
  
"And they want to bring Gotham into the fold?" Ed grinned, draining the last of his wine. "I can't see the rogues submitting to this High Table. Gotham can't even settle on a proper kingpin. They'll never kneel to a group they don't know."  
  
The Administrator hummed in agreement, loosening his tie absently. It was the most casual Ed had seen the man in these last few days, and the sight sent a curl of heat through his belly that he chose to ignore. "No." The Administrator said, lips twitching into the faintest smile. "I expect they won't."

* * *

"What goes into running a club like this?" Ed asked later that day when the Administrator returned from a meeting.  
  
"How did you start working for the Continental?" He followed up at dinner.  
  
"What sort of rules do the rest of the worlds criminals follow?"  
  
"What do you think about the state of Gotham's gangs?"  
  
The Administrator answered every time, although Ed wasn't foolish enough to think the man was telling him everything. But as their conversations became less one sided, Ed found himself more animated than he'd been in years, debating back and forth about Gotham's political situation or interrogating him about the world beyond the city.

Conversation came shockingly easy between them. The Administrator had a dry wit to him, and more than once surprised a laugh out of Ed with a well placed comment or a cutting remark. And Ed, in turn, was at least occasionally able to coax out an expression from him, even if it was never anything more than the briefest of smiles or a tilt of the head.  
  
Something about it, about them... just felt _right_.


	6. Chapter 6

On the eighth day, the Administrator got a call.  
  
"You lost her by the river?" The Administrator tapped his pen against his glasses, and sighed heavily. "Off of a pier, you say?"  
  
_—have a strong desire to never, ever see—_  
  
Ed winced, looking up sharply as the words lanced through his mind. Facing away, the Administrator didn't seem to notice, entirely focused on the conversation at hand.  
  
"Let me guess. Was it the third pier from the right?" He scoffed. "Of course it was. Thank you, Addy."  
  
_—something to say, now is the time—_  
  
Ed's book slipped from his hand as another flash of memory seared its way into him. Pulling off his glasses, Ed hunched over, pressing one hand over his eyes to try and head off the migraine starting to form behind them. A cacophony of sights and sounds and sensations started to force its way to the front of his mind, and his hands started to shake.  
  
_—cold blooded murder of someone you love—_  
__  
_—right before I called them—_  
  
It hurt. It hurt like it had in Arkham, when they'd strapped him down and put that thing on his head and—  
  
_—gave up your revenge for me—_  
__  
_—never make that mistake again—_  
  
"Mr Nygma?"  
  
A shudder ran through Ed as flashes and fragments continued to flood his head, pushing out all other thoughts, the jumbled up remains of shattered memories dredged up by... by...  
  
_—thought it should be personal—_  
__  
_—talk your way out—_  
__  
_—trust is so very—_  
__  
_—still become—_  
__  
_—love you—_  
  
"Edward." A steady voice in his ear, a warm hand in his. "Focus."  
  
"Too much," Ed rasped, his head pounding. "Too many bits and pieces I can't make sense of it it's too much I don't remember I can't I can't I can't—"  
  
"Pick one thing," the voice ordered. "Just one thing, and describe it to me."  
  
Choking back a sob, Ed tried, groping blindly for anything concrete. "F- fortune favors the bold. I don't—"  
  
The grip on his hand tightened slightly, and he tried desperately to focus on that, the feeling of warmth and pressure and another human body.   
  
"I told you that. You drove me out to the pier so you could shoot me."  
__  
_The click of an empty gun, a rush of confusion and alarm. Realization and despair, coiling as one around his heart._  
  
"You failed. I'd already called for backup, and disabled your weapon."  
  
"You were just trying to make me think I had the upper hand." Images and sounds and feelings coming together like puzzle pieces, slotting together into something bigger.  
  
"That's right. And after that..."  
  
Ed started to shiver as the rest of the memory slowly came into focus. "So cold..."  
  
"I had you frozen."  
  
A chill ran down his spine, the memory of ice giving way to something else. "The rain..."  
  
"It was raining the first time we went to that pier."  
  
_Pale grey eyes watery with tears, a face twisted into an expression of abject misery..._  
  
"You shot me, and then pushed me into the river."  
  
"You told me..."  
  
"I did." The gentle brush of a thumb over his wrist. "I also told you it would change you."

 _I don't love you._  
  
Ed pulled away from this painful memory, and reached out for another. "Copper in my mouth." He whispered. "Wind in my face. After... after the dentist?"  
  
"Sofia Falcone's goons were going to execute you. I shot them."  
  
"You said you trusted me."  
  
The Administrator went silent at that. But he'd given Ed enough. Slowly but surely, the memories were coming together in his mind—still patchy and indistinct in places, but whole, complete in a way they hadn't been since Arkham. It was almost uncomfortable, having them so present; something in him rebelled at the thought of those years, of knowing, of learning, and he quickly banished the memories to the back of his mind before the dull throb in his head could burst into a proper headache.  
  
Sitting up, Ed offered a wan smile to the man kneeling in front of him, and wiped away tears he hadn't quite realized he'd shed. "I'm sorry about that. It's... that's never happened to me before."  
  
The Administrator nodded, and stepped away, releasing Ed's hand. Ed's fingers flexed, already mourning the loss of contact. "That's quite alright." He paused for a moment. "The Falcone crime family is finished."  
  
He said it so nonchalantly Ed almost thought he'd misheard for a moment.  
  
"Unfortunately, Sofia herself seems to have escaped, but without her men and resources, there's precious little she could do, to you or to anyone else." The Administrator looked down at Ed, brow furrowed slightly in an expression Ed couldn't read. "We'll wrap up any loose ends tonight. By tomorrow morning, it should be safe for you to leave."  
  
"Oh." Was all Ed managed to say.  
  
Oh.  


* * *

  
He should have been happy, coming back to his life and his apartment and his job, should have been elated that he was no longer stuck bouncing between two rooms, reading voraciously to stave off boredom.   
  
But as he ate dinner alone, all he could feel was a deep, dull disappointment. It was ridiculous, to miss someone he'd barely spent a week with so acutely, but he did, the loss of the Administrator's company settling like a stone in his gut.  
  
"Are you sure you don't need to take more sick leave, Ed?" Lucius asked him, two days after he returned to work. "You've been snappy ever since you got back, and you're starting to scare the interns."  
  
"I'm fine." Ed growled, only proving Lucius' point. "Just. Feeling off."  
  
"Uh huh." Lucius studied him carefully. "Do we need to be worried, Ed?"  
  
Ed scowled. "I'm feeling a normal amount of off, not an Arkham amount of off, if that's what you're insinuating."  
  
"I was actually asking if you might still be sick, but that's good to know." Lucius shook his head. "Well, just don't overwork yourself, alright? The department can do without you for another week if we need to."  
  


* * *

  
  
He made it five days before deciding he needed to do something about the gnawing sense of loss in his chest. It took another two to figure out what that something would be. Which was how seven days after walking out of the Continental, Ed walked right back in, through the front door this time. The club was packed—even after a month, the novelty of the place had not yet worn off among socialites and criminals alike—so Ed made his way upstairs to the lounge.   
  
The man guarding the stairs to the third floor was one of the ones who'd rescued him from Falcone, a big, heavyset man with a faint slavic accent.  
  
"Vasily, wasn't it?" The man glanced at him, and gave a slight nod. "I'd like to see the Administrator, if he could spare a few minutes."  
  
If Vasily was surprised by the request, it didn't show. He simply flicked on an earpiece, and said something in Russian. A few moments later, he nodded, and gestured at the stairs. "The Administrator is in a meeting. Stay in the waiting room until he is finished."  
  
The waiting room was small, tastefully decorated in the same dark wood and white marble as the rest of the building. The secretary, Ms Jones, barely seemed to register his appearance, still tapping away at her typewriter. "Just a moment." She said without looking up.  
  
Ed's timing, it seemed, was impeccable—no sooner had he started to sit down, than the door to the Administrator's office swung open, and a woman with wavy red hair and a shoulder covered in tattoos walked out. She raised an eyebrow when she saw him there, but said nothing, brushing past him on her way down the stairs.  
  
"Mr Nygma." The Administrator set down his pen as Ed walked in. "What brings you back to my office so soon?"  
  
Ed closed the door behind him. "Administrator." He hesitated a moment, trying to figure out how to broach the subject, then settled on the direct approach. "I'd like to ask you out to lunch sometimes."  
  
That seemed to throw the man for a loop, and he looked up, blinking owlishly at Ed. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Wayne Tower is just a few blocks away. I was hoping I could come over and take lunch with you." The Administrator looked poised to object, and Ed hurriedly continued. "I've enjoyed your company these few days, and it seems like you've enjoyed mine. I don't see a reason not to continue meeting, just because my life isn't in danger anymore."  
  
The Administrator was silent for a long while. "No." He finally said.  
  
Ed frowned. "Why not?"  
  
"Must I give you a reason?" The Administrator asked curtly, his face an unreadable mask.  
  
"No, but I'd like one all the same. It wouldn't intrude on your schedule, your lunch break lines up with the end of my workday. And social interaction has proven health benefits. I'm not suggesting we eat together every day, but I'd like to meet with you at least occasionally." The Administrator's jaw tensed, and Ed hesitated. Maybe he'd misread the situation. "Tell me you didn't enjoy talking to me, and I'll leave you alone."  
  
"I believe it's time for you to go."  
  
Ed latched on to that. "So it's not that you dislike my company." He pushed.  
  
"It wouldn't be wise." The Administrator's voice grew strained, and Ed burned with confused frustration.  
  
"Why not?" He demanded, sharper than he'd intended, and the Administrator stood abruptly, slamming his hands onto his desk.  
  
"Because you might not remember us, but I do!"  
  
Ed stared, eyes wide as the Administrator recollected himself. In just one sentence, his composed monotone had cracked, and the words had spilled from his mouth dripping with bitterness and regret. Ed forgot, sometimes, that he'd once meant something to this man: Ed had taken drugs for years just to hallucinate him—had he felt the loss of their relationship just as strongly? Ed didn't know, couldn't know. And yet...  
  
Taking in a deep breath, the Administrator stepped around his desk, and started towards the door.  
  
Time to take a risk. Ed stepped forwards, reaching out for the smaller man. "Matthew." He called, and the Administrator froze with his hand on the doorknob.  
  
Emboldened, Ed stepped close. "Matthew." He said again. "You're right, I don't remember, and it doesn't matter. I don't care. Whatever relationship we used to have, I'm not looking for that." He laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "All I'm asking for is good conversation, and a chance to get to know you. That's all."


	7. Chapter 7

Addy was working the bar when she saw a familiar face emerge from the third floor. Gesturing for someone else to cover for her, she quickly moved over to the far corner of the bar, where there was a section curtained off for the Administrator and his guests.  
  
Matty met her there, slumping on a barstool, and Addy raised an eyebrow. "This a vodka kind of day?" She asked, already reaching for a bottle.  
  
"I think," Matty said slowly, "I've discovered a streak of masochism in myself today."  
  
"Discovered?" She grinned at him, pouring out his drink. "Oh sweetheart, I think everyone whose anyone knows you like it rough." He didn't smile at that, and hers faded at his lack of response. "Matty? Is everything alright?"  
  
"Everything's fine, it's just..." Matty grimaced. "Mr Nygma asked to meet me for lunch. Regularly."  
  
"Wow, that quick? Daring." She slid the glass to him. "He get too attached while you two were living together? You two get _close_?" She frowned as a thought occurred to her. "Wait, did he react badly when you turned him down?" It wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to get pushy with the smaller man. No one ever made that mistake twice.  
  
"No, that's not..." He shook his head, and took a drink. "I said yes."  
  
Addy blinked at him in shock. "Why?" She asked before she could stop herself. Maybe when he was just Matty, she could understand it—but ever since he'd wreathed himself in the icy mantle of the Administrator, she'd never seen him meet up with anyone for anything other than business, other than maybe herself on rare occasions.  
  
"It was... we talked a lot over that week, and..." Matty shrugged gloomily, staring down at his vodka. He was silent for a moment, then spoke again, so quiet she only barely heard it. "I was weak. I missed him."  
  
"After a week?" She asked, baffled. Nothing about the situation was making any sense to her.  
  
Then, shockingly, Matty began to cackle, doubling over as his shoulders shook. To her horror, when he straightened up again, his eyes were wet with unshed tears. "A week. God, if only." He let out a sharp bark that almost resembled laughter, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.  
  
Then he fixed her with a look she hadn't seen in a very long time, a careful, assessing look; it was the look he gave new clients when he'd been the Bartender, the one he used when he got a piece of particularly unbelievable secret or when someone asked for particularly sensitive information. It was like he was trying to decide how much he should say. Like he was trying to figure out if he could trust her.   
  
"Have you wondered why Falcone went for Mr Nygma, specifically?" He asked.  
  
Addy didn't see the relevance, but considered the information she had. "Edward Nygma, reformed criminal, used to go by the Riddler," she muttered to herself. "Known associate of Barbara Kean of the Sirens and commissioner Jim Gordon." She snapped her fingers. "He's meant to be a genius, right? And he used to specialize in thefts and break-ins. Maybe she wanted his expertise getting into the Continental."  
  
"Not a bad guess, but no." Matty drained his vodka, and gestured for a refill. "Sofia always was too proud and paranoid to follow the plans of someone who doesn't work for her." Something about the phrasing threw Addy off, but he continued before she could dwell on it. "No, the reason she took him was... much more personal. She must have seen my face in the right lighting, at the right angle, and made the connection." He laughed again, the sound sour and twisted. "I'm sure it was easy after that. She'd already kidnapped him to get to me once. Might as well give it another go, right?"  
  
Addy's head spun with every piece of new information being thrown at her, but she was too composed to let it overwhelm her. She'd been the first Bartender Matty had trained, and her experienced mind quickly put it all together. "You come from Gotham." She breathed. "That's why the High Table picked you to start—no, that's why the High Table decided to open up a Continental in Gotham at all."  
  
"Bingo." Matty's smile this time was lighter, almost proud, and Addy couldn't help but preen a little. "Edward and I... we used to be close. Sofia tried to use that against me."  
  
"And now that you're back in town, he wants to rekindle that friendship?" She guessed.  
  
But Matty shook his head. "It's more complicated than that. For one thing, he doesn't remember me."  
  
Addy opened her mouth, then closed it. " _What_?" She finally managed to get out.  
  
"Edward didn't just reform out of the blue. What have you heard about Arkham Asylum?"  
  
"Nothing good." Addy said with a wince. "Semi permanent home of the so called Rogues Gallery. Rumors make it sound more like a horror movie than a mental health institution."  
  
"That's an understatement, honestly. The place is a nightmare." Matty sighed. "They did something to him in there. 'Scrambled his brains', as Mr Zsasz put it. He didn't recognize me. Oh, he figured out who I was eventually, but his memories are just..." He waved his hand vaguely.  
  
Addy leaned forwards. "Let's see if I've gotten this straight: You used to be friends; he lost his memory of you; you enjoyed spending time with him over the week he was staying with you; now he wants a regular lunch date with you, which you've agreed to. Is that about right?"  
  
Matty nodded.  
  
"Matty..." She reached out to take his hand. "I don't understand what the problem is. You don't have to be the Administrator all the time, you know. You can have friends, you can enjoy yourself."  
  
"It's not that." He said quietly, and she gave him a look. "It's not just that." He amended. "We were friends, at times, but we kept hurting each other, over and over again. I have as many bad memories of him as I have good, and I told myself..." He dropped his head into his free hand. "I told myself I'd keep my distance while he was here. Break it off entirely with him."  
  
"But?" Addy asked, squeezing his hand.  
  
"But he was so different. He was so different and it made everything so much less raw and painful, and I... I let my guard down. I let him talk to me, and it was all so simple. He doesn't remember any of the pain we put each other through, and it was just... so easy to talk to him. Like we'd gone back to the way things used to be, like we'd never betrayed each other, never tried to kill each other."  
  
There was a waver in Matty's voice Addy had never heard before, and it made her heart ache.  
  
"I hadn't realized how much I missed it until I got it back. But I can't stop thinking about everything that went wrong after that. I haven't thought about it in years, but now I can't stop. And I still said yes when he asked to continue. Because I miss him" He laughed sharply. "He said he didn't want what we used to have together. I don't know if we can have anything else."  
  
"Isn't it worth a try?" She asked gently.  
  
He closed his eyes, and squeezed her hand back. "I hope so." He said softly. "I really, really hope so."


End file.
